


In the Darkness

by spikesgirl58



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's in the darkness that Illya must face his worst foe</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Darkness

No one ever really sees me – that's my greatest power. I can seemingly move among my fellow man without anyone paying attention to me. When someone tries, I put them off. "Think of me as the furniture, just a bit of background." Watching, but separate, always separate. But with that invisibility comes a great cost.

The bad guys, they rarely see me and when they do, it's to underrate me. Too bad for them - it gives me an edge in a fight that you couldn't buy with ready money.

The good guys, they prefer not to see me, as I am an outsider. They forget that once Americans and Russians were fast friends, strong allies against a common foe… now I'm visible representation of the Red Threat, better dead than Red, check for Reds under the bed… I've heard them all, believe me. No one really sees me and when they do, they don't want me here…

Well, that's not entirely true. Waverly wants me here – I represent the global concept of UNCLE. At first I felt like a token agent, but then I proved myself, proved my value. I worked hard, I only worked. While my partner sang and danced, I worked, I drew fire and I bled to prove that I had as much right to call myself an UNCLE agent as the next man, the next American.

Where the whispers were first about my loyalty, the whispers then changed. Now they wondered if I was even human or just some sort of elite fighting machine, devoid of emotion, of feelings or needs. Easier to ignore me than to really see me.

I assure you, I am as human as the next man and more than once I hungered for the touch of a friendly hand. However, you build up a façade of imperviousness and people shy away from you. They fear you. They see me as a super agent, rising above the need of a hand on my cheek or a voice whispering in my ear.

I miss that so much at times thatmy heart aches. I watch Napoleon as he moves from one woman to the next, seducing and loving his way through the night while I return to my quiet apartment to stare at the walls. Back in Moscow, my apartment would be thought a palace; I don't even need to share my bathroom with anyone else. A space to call my own , a prison, no matter how artfully described, a self imposed purgatory where I hide my emotions, my love, my longing, from the world, letting them come out only at night, my tears purging my emptiness until I sleep and find comfort in my dreams.

I miss home as well. Yes, life was rough, but at least there I was among my own. When the needs grew too much, I knew where a man like myself could go for a bit of relief. Here, in America, I am indeed a stranger in a strange land. Even when I worked up the courage to visit those specialized establishments in the village, it was always with my senses on the highest of alerts.

I'd be approached, but too on edge to relax enough to enjoy the moment. I'd go through the motions expected of me, then return to my empty bed and wait for the morning to come.

The affair had been a hard one. I was so tired, so sore that the ache seemingly went down to a cellular level. The debriefing went on forever, but Waverly never expected me to be exceptionally talkative at this point. My value came at the first of the mission, in the research, the paving of the way so that Napoleon could swing in like an erstwhile Errol Flynn, saving the Innocent, vanquishing the bad guy, putting the world to rights while I sat in the shadows and licked my wounds, invisible.

It was times like these that I was glad my apartment was older, it had a combination bathtub/ shower. For a long time, I soaked in the hottest water I could bear, listened to my favorite jazz records and emptied a bottle of very bad vodka.

I turned off the light and crawled into bed, wishing I had the energy to jack off, but that was beyond me at the moment. For a moment I hoped that it was enough, that I was so tired that I'd be spared, but the emptiness welled up, demanding its due. All the emotions I kept carefully hidden during the daylight, the longings, regrets, and bone-crushing sadness, burst forth and I sobbed like a small child.

When I felt the hand stroking my head, I should have reacted as a trained agent, but something calmed me. Whether it was the assuredness of the hand, the gentleness of the voice crooning to me in soft Russian, or just the entirety of the moment, I wasn't sure. I relaxed into it, craving that touch and voice more than a long-distance runner craves oxygen.

I felt a forehead touch mine, then lips, kissing it the way my mother used to, soothing away my fears. The mouth travelled down my face to my lips and I opened them to it and its clever tongue, exchanging words for kisses.

I could feel hands on my body, just as mine travelled over my partner's, for I knew that it was Napoleon. It was dark in the room, but I didn't need light. I knew the body stretched out beside mine as well as my own – one of the advantages of being partners.

Part of my mind was aghast at the liberties we were taking with one another, another part advised caution, and the third, the wisest part, told the other two to shut up. I needed this more than I needed to worry about protecting my image.

I feverishly worked buttons, a zipper, struggling to make Napoleon as naked as I was. I was hungry to feel his body against mine. As anxious as I was, I knew I'd never last and the feeling of his penis rubbing against mine was just the paradise I craved.

I climaxed, crying out something endearingly stupid in Russian, and he followed a moment later. Sleep came on the heels of our love making. I knew in the morning I would be alone, this was just a dream and that was all right. Somehow, the next time I looked my partner in the eye, I would keep my calm and pretend this never happened. It was as it must be.

Except in the morning, he was still there and every morning since when it could be arranged from that moment on. Either I stayed with him or he stayed with me. We were careful to keep our private life private, although I'm sure Waverly knew - he's far too clever for his own good. Perhaps Waverly had even sent him to me that night. There's no way of knowing, not really.

But I no longer cry myself to sleep… at least not with tears…


End file.
